“Oh you wicked old rascal!” cried one voice, “looking arter the girls, are you?”
“Oh you wenerable sinner!” cried another.
“Putting on his spectacles to look at a married ’ooman!” said a third.
“I see him a winkin’ at her, with his wicked old eye,” shouted a fourth.
“Look arter your wife, Pott,” bellowed a fifth;—and then there was a roar of laughter.
As these taunts were accompanied with invidious comparisons between Mr. Pickwick and an aged ram, and several witticisms of the like nature; and as they moreover rather tended to convey reflections upon the honour of an innocent lady, Mr. Pickwick’s indignation was excessive; but as silence was proclaimed at the moment, he contented himself by scorching the mob with a look of pity for their misguided minds, at which they laughed more boisterously than ever.
“Silence!” roared the Mayor’s attendants.
“Whiffin, proclaim silence,” said the Mayor, with an air of pomp befitting his lofty station. In obedience to this command the crier performed another concerto on the bell, whereupon a gentleman in the crowd called out “muffins;” which occasioned another laugh.
“Gentlemen,” said the Mayor, at as loud a pitch as he could possibly force his voice to. “Gentlemen. Brother electors of the Borough of Eatanswill. We are met here to-day for the purpose of choosing a representative in the room of our late——”
Here the Mayor was interrupted by a voice in the crowd.